Tales of Diria

[KyferLegs (Diria)]

Author's Note: I decided to be more organized and confident with my writing, and I randomly wrote many stories, but they end up going nowhere or being scrapped. Some are vents; others are just ideas I had, so I consider this a haven for the stories and tales of Diria. I may continue some of these stories, and others may be single parts, but if y'all have any suggestions, I'd be willing to hear them. Some of these stories contain content that isn't for the faint of heart; those stories will be marked with a red title. You have been warned.

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Il Polizarmar - The Constabularies

A shutter resonated above, violently shaking the deprecated metro tunnel's arched roof and the platform below. Structural braces adjourned the rugged sandstone walls and decorated the ceiling with busy crosses. The iron of such had long stained brown and red by rust, the corrosion left to propagate due to lack of meaningful maintenance. The braces creaked, groaned, and vibrated, rubble and debris shaking off the old roof, once sculpted to be a consistent shape by some toiled hand or machinery long ago. Now, the shaking and barrage had undone that. Porosity dominated the roof, the yellow stone akin to the appearance of a sponge, while significant cracks and fissures began to open against the walls. It was an architect's nightmare, as the risk of a cave-in grew with every shutter and jolt that dislodged stone that pinged and thumped against the floor and rails as hazy dust from the hours of such occurrences hung melancholically to the ground and around the lights.

Another shell slammed into the ground above, the roof convulsing as if it was alive and in pain itself. The steel braces wailed in agony, metal contorting uncomfortably from the strain overhead. Worried faces looked up and around, and soft murmurs and whispers attempted to converse with one another over the cries of youth. However, before calm could wash over the large group that had grown in size over the hours, more explosions rumbled from above, increasing in intensity as the barrage crept closer.

The lights of the metro tunnel flickered, then completely turned off, followed by the sounds of glass shattering, making an impact against the floor, the light fixtures where the bulbs had been mounted shattering from their swaying and jerking. For a moment, darkness swallowed the metro platform, a lone surviving light flickering from the far exit like a single candle behind a shroud. At the same time, everything shook. It felt as if the earth itself was becoming undone. Belongings strewnbestrewed across the floorground, debris pinged against the floor in painful cacophony, and the loud rumble of explosions and retaliatory gunfire could be felt in the bones of those cowering, hoping the roof would hold.

Some time passed, and nobody spoke.

Only the occasional pattering of debris and the muffled cries of youths and scared people broke the eerie ambiance. Commotion would only bring them immediate danger if the enemy broke through; they knew they were in enemy lines. Paranoia ran high, so much so that volunteers and some of the Etaroh Constabularies, which were not fighting up top, watched over the exits with guns or knives they had owned or were given to them. 

Regardless, a semblance of order was maintained, especially when being a nuisance risked your removal from the shelter during a siege. Fortunately, the sounds of detonations began to trail off into the distance, and the faint orange glow of oil lamps replaced the vibrant gold of the now-broken metro lighting. During the moment, some even resumed murmuring, inquiries of every sort arising to preoccupy each other from the events overhead, yet they were quickly cut brief by a loud hush as the vicinity's concentration turned to the closest exit.

A senior constabulary, his name tag reading Dobias, raised his rifle and pointed it toward the closest stairway. His legs spread out to keep balance as the old, heavy rifle weighed laboriously in his grip. Another constabulary, a first-class by the name of Ayache, hung the adjourning wall to the stairway's arch, a revolver held close in front of him as he pulled the hammer down with a loud click. Everyone else who wasn't armed scurried like surprised rats who were surprised and sunk into the darkened walls, taking refuge in the shadows and the cover of the metro system rails. However, the racket coming from the exit didn't stop. Banging, shuffling, and grinding echoed into the platform. Senior constabulary Dobias, with his rifle, moved forward slowly, the vast barrel of his gun bobbing up and down shoddily.

"What is it?" another figure on the other end of the platform shouted hushedly, oblivious that their voice may have just given them all away. There was no reply as the constabularies closest to the sounds held their breath or avoided making too much noise. Their boots crunched glass and rock as Dobias climbed the stairwell, sliding up the wall. With their revolver, the constabulary Ayache peeped his head out from the base of the stairs, muttering inquiries as he watched Senior Constabulary Dobias, armed with his rifle, make hesitant and systematic steps closer to the racket. Yet, as they reached the top step, he turned back briefly, gesturing for Ayache to stay and defend the bottom stairs as he checked it out.

By then, the sounds of moving debris had stopped, but what replaced it was faint but noticeable footsteps in the distance that crunched glass. Dobias let himself breathe again as their heart rate rose. Internally, he prayed, then leaned out of the corner, taking care not to expose the rifle in his hands. His eyes scanned the hall that led to the surface, the bright but albeit winter sun shining afar. The once-decorated hallway was full of rubble, and the glass canopy above the metro stairs that provided calm hues of colored light was utterly destroyed and strewn as fragments and shards. Yet, what instead caught his gaze was a lone figure bathed in the dark that the metro system's light had once illuminated. Its movements were difficult to discern, but Dobias quickly pulled himself back into cover, not wanting to reveal himself until he was ready.

Steadily, he fumbled with the safety lock of his rifle, his hands shaking slightly as his fear fought with training. He wasn't military, he was law enforcement, and before the war, he had never held a rifle. Slowly, he turned the rifle's bolt, pulling it up and back partially, exposing the live round within, and then closed it again. No more excuses. Glancing out of cover, he watched as the figure in the dark preoccupied itself, its arms pressed against the rubble, and pushed some of the broken concrete aside, exposing the metro to the outside world. Dobias pulled himself away from the cover he glanced from. He raised the rifle toward the figure; his finger hovered over the trigger as he stepped closer. More of the shadowed figure came into view, and as his eyes glanced at their hip, they were armed, and then beneath his booth, crunch.

The figure instantly twisted and scrambled, throwing themselves down to the ground at an arch. Dobias panicked momentarily, sidestepping away from the glass they stepped on. Meanwhile, the figure's side and back slammed into the ground. After impact, the figure's front turned to face Dobias but, in a second of deliberation, chose not to reach for the gun on their hip and raised their arms above their head. The constabulary regained his composure, the rifle poised toward the figure's center of mass as he shouted to the figure, "Toss it!" The figure gradually moved, gripping the gun on their hip from the top, and threw it out of sight, it banging against the ground loudly. They then raised their arms above their head again, but their head pivoted, whispering something indecipherable. "Stop moving; I'll shoot!" Dobias's finger began to rub against the trigger, suspense, and intuition telling him something was awry. Abruptly, a second figure exposed itself from a corner that met an adjoining hall, the greeting room; it had slipped Dobias's mind, and the figure had just tossed the gun to them.

Base instincts kicked in, and Dobias's finger squeezed the rifle's trigger, a loud crack echoing down the halls, causing his ears to ring instantly. Yet, as the round impacted, dust and concrete kicked into the air past between the targets. He had missed. The second after, Dobias threw himself against the wall. The second figure exposed themselves from the corner, their hands pointing forward, armed with a revolver, and ready to fire. However, nothing happened. Instead, there were three clicks as the revolver in the figure's hands didn't fire, its firing pin hitting empty shells. Dobias immediately charged forward, using the figure's misfortune to save himself. The second figure yelped in surprise, trying to slide back into cover, but was hurled to the ground as Dobias tackled them.

The two grunted and yelled in anger, legs kicking, as the figure, their arms pressed into Dobias's stomach, their hands still fighting to hold their weapon. Finally, either in panic or calculation, the figure let go of the revolver. It crammed between the two while the figure's arms flailed and writhed. Dobias, his legs twisting over the figure's, keeping his weight firmly down and the individual trapped, now lifted the top of his rifle against the neck of the figure, pressing down. In contrast, the figure's free hands clawed and scratched at Dobias's sides, drawing blood.

"H-holy shit! Stop, he's friendly!" A voice cried out from Dobias's left side; his head jerked towards the voice and looked up at the figure, the same whom he had put at gunpoint. They looked battered. Scratches and gashes littered parts of their arms and forehead as Dobias froze from the statement. He examined them more closely, their clothing torn and stained with dust and grime from the shelled buildings and debris outside, but that's not what caught his gaze. Instead, Dobias gazed at the Dirian Transport Constabulary echelons on their shoulders. He then glimpsed down, seeing Etaroh Constabulary patches on the shirt collar of the Zarou he was strangling to death. Dobias sniveled, his eyes wide and unblinking while his abdomen went tight. He felt as he began to suffocate, his left hand gripping his collar while he then fell to his right side in fatigue.

The transport constabulary, his name patch, reading Mehrian, came into view as they carefully trod toward the two, reaching for Dobias's rifle on the Zarou's neck and chest and placing it aside. The Zarou gagged and gasped for air. He turned over, the revolver falling against the ground and his weight shifting to his knees while his arms pushed his upper torso off the ground. He continued retching, the horrid sound echoing down the immediate hall as he threw up, the absent sensation of the gun still toying with the nerves and muscles in his neck. Meanwhile, Mehrian knelt on his knee, putting his hand on the Zarou's back while he spoke with concern and unease. "Christ... Lucedi, are you okay?"

Meanwhile, Dobias kept whimpering, softly crying as their mind struggled to comprehend what they had done. He took a hollow breath, puffing for air as his head fell back against the ragged ground, his constabulary cap falling off his head backward. Slowly, his composure returned, quick huffs and grunts exiting his mouth with accompanying muttered apologies, attempting to hide the feeble state Dobias had fallen into. Suddenly, his hands felt the absence of his rifle, a sense of absolute defenselessness nearly bringing him back to near panic. Then it vanished as he recalled the two other constabularies next to him.

Lucedi, the near-strangled Zarou, began to rebound, his claws pressed into the floor. He pushed himself up, his knees holding him vertically and into the air, then carefully, and with the help of his cohort Mehrian, he stood and leaned with strain against the adjacent wall. His eyes glanced at Dobias, a look of anger and disdain; the Zarou's eyes crinkled, a faint snarl emitting off the ravaged walls. However, as he began to settle, adrenaline exiting his system, he stared at the mess below him. Dobias was a mess; their uniform was in shreds, gashes and lacerations tattered across their body, while their hands appeared tender and worn, the skin on their palms peeling. Lucedi wanted to be angry, but he couldn't be anymore. He just felt pity.

Mehrian patted the shoulder of Lucedi, who, despite standing, was still catching their bearings after a near-death experience. Another crunch then sounded down the hall which Dobias had come from, his body twisting and gripping his hip where their revolver was missing. He looked to the ground where it fell off Lucedi's lap, yet by the time he wanted to reach for the gun in their possible defense, the source of the sound appeared. It was Ayache, whose glance immediately concentrated on Dobias, who was still pulling himself off the floor. Carefully, he leaned out his hand, which Dobias grabbed and used to pull himself up and off the ground. Both groups stared at each other, awkward silence being exchanged between the two as Ayache glanced back and forth in confusion. "What happened-"

Immediately, Mehrian cut in, changing the topic so Dobias or Lucedi didn't have to discuss their confrontation and still-fresh memories. "We're from the Smynia Borough just South of you guys here; it's, well, not good."

Lucedi grunted and bemoaned, his voice husky. "That's an understatement."

Mehrian sighed, glancing down at Lucedi and back up at Ayache and Dobias. "...The Verakis are using anything they can throw on those trying to resist: gas, bombs, fire. Most troops had to retreat to the outskirts or hunker underground to wait for any gas and fire to settle." He looked up at the ceiling, cracks running across it, and then down at the grey and wood-furnished revolver on the ground. "Rumor is, Smynia is about to be encircled. There are not enough men to cover the entire borough, so they're withdrawing what they can and subsequently evacuating or pointing anyone who can't fight here in Alla; at least there are finished metro tunnels here for the civilians to hunker down."

Lucedi chuckled, the tone disparaging as he cleared his throat. He stood a bit higher and tilted his muzzle toward the ceiling, his eyes tilting up while orienting himself. He then tilted his gaze back down at Dobias and Ayache. "However, due to the lack of available men, the constabularies within the city are expected to fight with the army, except for this fortunate bastard."

Mehiran tilted his head down, a momentary ounce of regret on his face while he rubbed his elbow. He let out an awkward puff of air, glancing at Lucedi and then back to Dobias and Ayache, the ladder's eyes observing. Mehiran then spoke, a trace of remorse in his voice. "Transport a few hours ago just got the orders to assemble and evacuate anyone who isn't male, of age, or simply can't fight. It gives those rumors more weight. So, the station sergeants of the two boroughs have runners informing constabularies, any remaining men of draft age, etc., to prepare themselves and regroup with the army." Mehiran waved his arm toward Lucedi. "Lucedi here is one of those runners. I'm just tagging along since usually, where constabularies are, there are civilians."

Ayache grimaced, his body shifting close to the wall, which he leaned against in frustration. Dobias, meanwhile, remained distant. No longer in panic or crying, he was blank as he stared, his vision piercing through Mehiran. Ayache's hand smacked the wall, his forehead pressing and pivoting against the sandstone. He then spoke, his voice exasperated. "So you're essentially telling us we're going up to fight as soldiers?"

Lucedi groused, his right arm extending to grip Mehiran's left shoulder. Finally, he pushed himself off the wall, standing up straight. The two exchanged glances, and Mehiran handed Dobias's rifle to the Zarou as a reward for their previous encounter and troubles. Lucedi then looked up, shouldering the gun swiftly. "No shit. I'm not a strategist, but as you can tell from what Mehiran said, the army needs us out there. We're lucky they didn't immediately make us fight on the frontlines; considering everything that transpired the last year, it should've been the opposite the second they entered the city."

Mehiran leaned down, grabbed the revolver off the floor, and gestured it to Dobias. Dobias took a moment to respond, his eyes still drifting. Mehiran reconsidered for a moment until the man's arm lifted, gripping the revolver and pulling it from Mehiran's hand. "Well, down into the Metro..." Dobias winced, blinking his eyes rapidly to cure them of their dryness. The whites of his eyes were stained red from tears earlier, which he was still recovering from. "Down in the metro, we have civilians, some constabularies too; I guess we'll have to tell them the news."

[KyferLegs (Diria)]

Scars

Esrellia 3rd, 1906.

Dirian Provisional Government.
Eastern Shrand.

Day 48 of the Spring Offensive

Bakri Ziani held his McCarron Model 4 in a death grip, pressing his cheek firmly into the gun's stock. Next, taking a deep breath, his left eye closed while his right stared down the sight. Slowly, the shaking movements that obscured his aim slowed, and with a squeeze of the trigger, the figure's chest in dark green fatigues dropped, falling backward as the man he shot failed to climb over the brown and grey debris more than a hundred feet out. Abruptly, as he breathed out, the sounds around him returned. All around him was a cacophony of screaming, ear-piercing sounds, streaking bullets, and distant artillery that were luckily not falling on him. His eyes stayed open, not daring to blink as the enemy attacked. The momentary thoughts of the position they attacked, held, and attacked, and held, every move finished and occurred the same. However, before he could lose focus, a language he scarcely comprehended screamed at him from his right.

"Oting, aks holda boshingizni olaman!" The tan screaming face, covered in muck, shouted louder and louder, occasionally breaking off to yell at another person. Their Amali-provided field cap nearly fell off due to the person's sudden movement. Ziani didn't care until he saw the blue and yellow makeshift sergeant tabs. For a moment, he just stared with his right eye, his other eye focusing on the action up front. Suddenly, another two words came out, "Keep Shoot!" That's all Ziani needed to hear before returning to the sights of his rifle. In and out, squeeze and cycle, the action persisted, the sounds around him becoming non-existent as he took aim and fired, losing the consideration to see if his bullets connected to his chosen targets. As if the rifle became himself, he lost the will to do anything but shoot and periodically reload, grabbing the rounds from his pockets and on the ground around him into the rifle's bolt.

However, the trance eventually faded as his eyes blinked again for what felt like hours. The building debris in front of the squad was covered in bodies, blood, and equipment. Shifting his eyes gradually to the left, he gazed off at the orange glow in the distance, debating if it was just the sun setting or another part of the town engulfed in battle or flames, which had happened on several occasions. Sighing, Ziana loosened his grip on the rifle, his hands sore and cut from continuous use. The rifle barrel dug into the splintered wood and paneling he aimed from. Around him were the dusted or destroyed pieces of someone's life, that and other men and a woman who had taken up positions in the home they held.

However, before he could rest against the stock of his gun, consume something from his canteen or combat ration, or relieve himself, a man in Gaelic lend lease uniform crouched over to him. "Ziani and Kolli, you're ordered downstairs." Ziani got up slowly, his footing messy after laying on his gut for hours, without looking back for Kolli Avci. Kolli was someone Ziani had served with for a while now. He knew the man's name and that he was nicer than most, but that's it.

Nonetheless, he made himself to the stairwell while ducking his head down. Quickly descending the stairs, Ziani pushed his way through the bulk of the lower defenses, having to climb over crates and furniture blocking the immediate access to the stairs. Next, he went through the maxim gunner's position, hoping their assistant wouldn't make him carry belts. Finally, he arrived at the lieutenant's position, the door he opened creaking painfully. The lieutenant looked up, ignoring and cutting off the Sergeant conversing with him. "You're both on scavenging duty. Wait for sundown and collect ammo, weaponry, anything of use from the dead, bastard guns and ammo included." Ziani sighed while the soldier behind him, the Zarou, amply named Kolli, saluted and left the room. The lieutenant then stared at Ziani, which Ziani then saluted and grumpily walked off.

Meeting him past the door was Kolli, appearing to be in his late 30s or early 40s, as he fastened the chin strap of his bowl helmet, his ears fitting through the cut and welded makeshift addition. "Ready?" Kolli promptly stated, lifting his rifle to his arms. Ziani nodded, not realizing the extent of their age and trying to interpret the background of his newfound companion. He kept his rifle close as the two approached a table, the two grabbing former vegetable sacks with a rope sewn to them. They threw the rope onto their bodies and secured it tightly as both arrived at the house door blockaded by rubbish. Thus, the two went to the adjacent window in the next room, its base covered with a rug to avoid broken glass.

Kolli stared at Ziani, seeing the worry or stress on Ziani's face. Sighing, he tightened his shoulders, grabbing Ziani's left arm and squeezing while Ziani tilted to look at the Zarou who had just pinched him. Yet, before he could shout or get angry, Kolli spoke. "I'll run. You watch and cover."

Ziani tried to hide his relief as he peered out at the still daylight outside and followed Kolli, both men quickly climbing out, their boots pressing into the soil, dried out by the sun. Hurriedly, both ran, their bodies arched forward as they heaved themselves against the shattered stone wall surrounding the house. Kolli tilted his chin up, Ziani then peeking over the rim of the wall and giving the Zarou a pat on the shoulder. Quickly, Kolli ran from the long destroyed front gate, throwing himself against a riddled wooden cart. Kolli then gave a thumbs up, Ziani following in a similar routine.

The process continued for a while, both men taking turns running between sheds, carts, rubble, or buildings and occasionally picking up interests from fallen men that had made it a bit closer than the ones farther away. Luckily, both reached the final intersection and took cover behind an adjacent bombed wall inside a destroyed house. Ziani shuffled closer to the edge of the ruined wall, tilting his head from the wall and tilting it back to look at Kolli. Who was staring at a mutilated body, the corpse resting peculiarly and its head facing downward to its hands holding a pennant. The body was positioned just across from them as if it was one of their own still living. Sighing, Ziani glimpsed away from the body, a moment of stillness washing over them, occasionally interrupted by distant artillery.

Kolli tilted his head to Ziani as if waiting for something. "Well?"

Ziani once again peeked past the wall, trying not to overexpose his forehead or cheek. His hands gripped tighter around his rifle as he peeked out from cover and immediately tilted back behind the wall. "It looks clear."

Kolli shrugged, making himself comfortable as he let himself slide down and went to grab the ties of his haversack. After pulling them loose, he reached into his bag, grabbed a hardtack biscuit, which he broke in two, and handed the other half to Ziani. "That's so you can run out first when it gets darker."

Ziani felt the appeal of food to stave off his hunger more than the fear of getting shot. Thus, both leaned against the wall, eating the overly stale biscuit as fast as they could without breaking a tooth. Ziani took a moment to breathe. The biscuit was the first thing he ate all day. He then turned to Kolli, who was still shoving the biscuit into his mouth. "You're old." Ziani blinked, realizing the bluntness of his comment. "How did someone your age end up fighting?"

Kolli frowned, not being annoyed since Ziani was speaking the truth. Kolli, besides the lieutenant, was probably the oldest in the house they had defended. Wiping his muzzle, the Zarou looked back at the body across from them and looked back down, shoving the biscuit's remains and its wrap into his bag. "Supposed it was the honorable thing to do." Kolli stared up at Ziani, holding his rifle closer as if he was conveying it wasn't a topic he was happy with.

Ziani nodded, knowing he served for the identical explanation, and regretted the circumstances also. Sliding down against the wall, the heels of his boots sank into the unfortunate positioned wet dirt. "What's up with that new Sergeant?" Ziani mumbled mockingly, remembering his encounter with the Sergeant screaming in his face while bullets flew toward him.

Kolli puffed his cheeks, spit escaping his lips as he tried to hold his laugh. "The one with the stick shoved up his ass?"

Ziani smiled, brushing his face with his sleeve as he reached the end of the biscuit Kolli gave him. "Yeah, what's his name again? Jadelah-Bara-Something?" He snickered, knowing he butchered the Sergeant's name, but it felt good to make fun of a superior without being told he was disrespecting their honor.

Kolli snickered also, but for the sake of Ziani's head, he gave him the proper pronunciation. "Jaadallah el-Bari, hold onto that with your life. Dallah seems like more of a menace than these Verakis."

Ziani felt comfortable, even though he and the older Zarou were alone in the middle of the small no man's land. It could be worse, like the plains between cities. At least he could piss in an unoccupied building here without getting sniped from hundreds of feet away. However, before he could think anymore, Kolli interrupted his thought. "Anything unique you did before?"

For a moment, Ziani wanted to ask before what, but he realized just after what before meant: The War. Shrugging, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a locket with a wrinkled photo shoved into it, then handed it to the Kolli, who looked over it intently and opened it. Kolli seemed confused, staring at the picture of who he recognized as a younger Ziani and an older man while various photos and paintings surrounded both. "Your Pa?"

Ziani nodded, grabbing the locket hastily from Kolli, closing it, and shoving it into his pocket. "He was a painter and acquainted me with the many things of art, but the war started, and to his dismay, I decided to join."

Kolli chuckled as he stared up, noticing the sky was no longer bright, and everything around the two was hard to discern from. "Sounds like something I'd be upset at, too. Anyways." Kolli stood up, holding his rifle to his stomach as he gestured to the still-sitting Ziani.

Ziani thought about Kolli's statement, realizing Kolli was probably as old as his dad. Yet, not dwelling on it further, he pressed himself against the wall to stand and shuffled to the side until his knee was about to peek out from behind the wall. Taking a deep breath, he looked at Kolli. "Wish me luck." Before Kolli could respond, Ziani ran from the wall toward the debris he had fired at before. Ziani internally panicked as this was the longest run far. He counted the agonizing seconds before forcing himself against the rocks, wood, and concrete with a dive. Panting, he rolled over, staring at the wall, which he assumed Kolli was peeking out from. Rolling back to his stomach, Ziani crawled closer to the mound of bodies and ruins, the strong scent of iron hitting him as he held in the urge to gag. It was going smoothly, at least, until Ziani felt something grab his leg, and in instinct, he kicked as hard as he could muster while rolling back over, a loud crack and groan immediately following. The unmistakenly alive wounded soldier recoiled, squirming as he pulled his now broken hand to his chest.

Kolli, fortunately, arrived shortly after, throwing himself on the ground as he looked at the predicament. Ziani stared at the soldier, whose bloodied face seemed entirely betrayed, despite the fact by the uniform he wore, they were enemies. Kolli slowly crawled up to the soldier, reaching into his pocket, grabbed the Veraki soldier by the collar, and swiftly shoved a knife into their neck. The soldier wriggled after, choking and gargling until he went still, Kolli looking up and pushing the now corpse aside, but not before grabbing the few rounds in his pockets and putting them into his sack.

For a moment, Ziani kept staring at the body, watching the fresh crimson puddle oozing from the body. However, he rolled back once again as Kolli got close and spoke. "Keep your bayonet close. They'd do the same if given the chance." Kolli heaved his rifle, threading the knife he had just used to kill the wounded Veraki to the tip of his gun.

Ziani nodded, repeating the same process as he looked around them. It was barbaric. Bodies and various parts scattered about like confetti. Thankfully, it was dark, for if he could still see clearly, he'd probably throw up from the sight. Looking to his left, Kolli was already going away to his duties, rummaging through bodies and the dead's pockets to find what they had in their pockets or shoving the most appealing weaponry after seeing if they were clear from ammo or subsequently unloaded, pushing it all haphazardly into his sack.

Ziani followed suit, crawling to the opposite side of the rubble and repeating the process that Kolli was doing. However, the silence without Kolli or the far action subsided as everything became covered by night, which pained Ziani with every movement and every act of gathering disturbing him. However, intertwined with the apprehension was the brutality of what he had done and seen, which expressed no sympathy. Thus, when Ziani found another wounded Veraki, his reaction was simply to stab and kill them with the bayonet of his rifle. However, as he happened across his twelfth or so body, he suddenly took note of the white blinking eyes of the soldier he didn't see, who Ziani assumed was watching him approach. The soldier breathed nervously, his arms not moving as he didn't dare to move as Ziani raised the barrel of his gun.

The figure spoke painfully but alive as his white eyes and brown pupils stared at Ziani. "Per favore lasciami vivere." Their voice was full of remorse and terror.

Ziani remained still, staring at the soldier he couldn't understand, and for a moment, he shared their remorse. Yet, the figure's eyes lowered and fixated on the blade of Ziani's rifle.

The soldier trembled, pulling himself closer to the debris to his left as if to flee, but he could not move far due to some injury. The figure's eyes disappeared and reappeared as they continuously blinked. "No, no, no, per favore voglio andarmene. Per favore!" Their voice raised in pitch.

Ziani broke his stillness and began moving to the figure again, detecting the threat as the soldier started to yell louder. As the soldier began to scream in terror, Ziani rapidly approached the soldier, the figure still trying to crawl away, their hands pulling out loose rubble. Ziani quickly grabbed the soldier by the arm and tugged him forcefully to the ground. However, unexpectedly to Ziani, the soldier struggled with strength and shrieked, reaching for something on his hip.

The figure's hand clenched onto something as he wailed out. "No no no lasciami in pace! Ti scongiuro!" A loud pop immediately followed a brief yellow flash lighting up both. Ziani flinched, believing himself shot, but as he heard the bullet hit the concrete next to him, he lunged his rifle's bayonet into the soldier's gut and twisted. The soldier still kept crying and yelling in agony. Thus, Ziani pulled the bayonet back and shoved it in higher to their chest, and with a few weak gargles and mutterings, the soldier went limp as a dark stain grew on their tunic.

Before Ziani could take a moment to evaluate the situation, a loud hiss rose into the sky, with a following crackle as he stared up at bright white light, a flare. Quickly throwing himself down, his body sliding down the debris, he cursed quietly. He felt more panic as he looked around in the illuminated dark, the grip on his rifle getting uncomfortably tight. Suddenly, a voice came from his right, his rifle pitching to the sound as the individual ducked down and swore in a familiar language while Kolli slowly crawled from the shadow that the debris made.

Kolli spoke in a whisper, agitated at being brandished but worried over the predicament and commotion he heard. "What happened? Are you okay?" He pulled himself closer and then dragged Ziani a bit farther down.

Ziani shuddered, his eyes full of panic, but luckily, he began to snap out of it as he saw his Zarou companion. "A Veraki was prepared."

Kolli knew it was probably more but knew better than to ask. He lifted his head slightly, staring at the bright flare hanging over their skyline. "He missed?"

Ziani gave an affirmative nod that Kolli couldn't see as he reached for his canteen, taking a healthy sip and deep breath. "Yes, I'm okay. I'm okay."

Kolli sighed in relief, breathing with his mouth and avoiding using his nostrils, probably stronger than Ziani's. He kept his tone to a whisper, considering their predicament. "Reeks, doesn't it?"

Ziani chuckled dismissively, closing his eyes and leaning back as he put his canteen on his stomach and above his gun. "Dead things do usually smell."

Kolli still attempted to talk to Ziani, who was probably still recovering from his life flashing before his eyes. Thus, giving Ziani a moment, he thought of a counter-argument and muttered. "Flowers."

Ziani's head tilted down, looking at Kolli, who was still prone on his side. "What?"

Kolli looked up at Ziani. "If you cut a flower, you're technically killing it, but it still smells good."

Ziani let out another dismissive chuckle, this time with more enthusiasm. "Doesn't it still wither up and then smell in a way, 'cause we might not smell it, but the bugs do?

Kolli stiffened his groan, realizing he had been proven wrong. "Thanks."

Ziani slid farther down, getting on roughly the same level as Kolli. "I'm just saying."

Kolli shuffled, rolling a bit onto his back, his gun positioned between his knees as he stared at the crest of debris behind them. "If it makes you happy, I suppose everything loses control over its smell once death happens."

Ziani stared up, watching the flare next, its brightness dimmer, while he put his canteen back into the sleeve he tied to his belt. "Guess that's something we all have in common, even with these bastards."

Kolli then let out his dismissive chuckle, readjusting his position until he was on his back like Ziani, now staring at the sky again, watching the fizzling flare finally die out, puffing out a few last sparks before everything went back to black. "Then I ask you to remind me not to die."

"Likewise." Ziani quickly murmured as he looked at the wall from where they came.

Kolli shifted his gaze to where Ziani was staring. "I think we overstayed our welcome. Ready?"

Ziani offered a brief nod as Kolli, with some hesitant weight shifts, then darted off, running the extent till he threw himself behind cover. Ziani quickly followed, slowed down by the weight, his now partially full sack dampening his speed. However, lucky for him, he made it. Kolli gave Ziani a gaze as if implying he had taken his time. Ziani then looked at Kolli, who looked past their cover and patted his shoulder, and thus Ziani ran to the next piece of shelter.

Slowly, they retraced their steps, their bodies tired due to their extra weight with the sacks. However, both had made it close enough to the house to see their fellow soldiers' eyes peering at them through the windows and holes in the walls. Kolli stared at Ziani, them both in a ditch, as he huffed loudly, his breath not enjoyable as the two sat uncomfortably close together. Kolli peered up and out of cover and tapped Ziani's shoulder, and Ziani quickly jogged to the wooden cart in the middle of the street. Giving an automatic thumbs up, Kolli began sprinting to the cart, but immediately after, another flare shot into the sky. Ziani swore to himself as the bright light lit up the vicinity, and just before Kolli could throw himself into cover, a loud crack slammed where Kolli had just run from.

Kolli swore himself, face planting into the ground, quickly going to pick himself up, his hands pressing into the dirt. Ziani lowered his hand, reaching for Kolli as suddenly another crack zipped, going straight through the wood and slamming into the ground past Kolli. However, Kolli dropped again, his face plunging back into the dirt as he began gargling violently. Ziani quickly reached down, grabbing the collar of Kolli, noticing the liquid, blood, oozing from their neck. "Fuck!" Ziani let the sack that hung on his back fall, its weight hitting the dirt with a slam. Quickly, he grabbed his rifle, holding it by the barrel in terror and going to cut the rope that held the pack on Kolli. Yet, as Kolli struggled, gripping his neck in pain, and the rope on his body didn't respond to the dull blade, Ziani grabbed the rope, pulling hard instead.

Adrenaline thumped through his veins, the strength he didn't know he had let him tug Kolli, and the sack fastened around him, yet it was still an agonizingly slow pace back to the house's front wall and gate. The blood continuously pooled onto Kolli's head and shoulders as another bullet whizzed, slamming into the house. Consequently, a soldier inside the house retaliated the loud rhythmic chug of a maxim gun opening up and firing past the silhouette of Ziani in a blind hunt of whoever was shooting the pair.

Ziani groaned at his partner's weight and his sack slowing him down as he continuously looked back to the growing closer gate. Then another bullet whizzed, slamming itself into the wall behind Ziani. Ziani yelped, his arms locked, his elbows bent in awful ways as he felt the muscles in his gut yanked with a quick, sharp pinch. Looking down, he stared at the growing stain on the right side of his abdomen. However, finally, he felt his back hit the side of the house's wall. Changing direction, he felt like stumbling and nearly fell, dragging the still gargling and coughing body of Kolli.

Now, behind cover, Ziani quickly took the bayonet off his gun and cut the oddly durable sack rope with adrenaline still providing enough strength. Grabbing Kolli from under his arms, Ziani stepped backward, moving with pace as the sack, full of guns and ammo, was finally cut free. Yet, with less weight, the window proved too far up for the strain and wound Ziani endured. Ziani yelled out loudly inside the window and the house. "Corpsman!" His tone entailed his pain and suffering. Ziani felt his reserves dwindling, the spent adrenaline working against him as his balance failed, his right knee hitting the ground, and the rest of his body falling on top of Kolli. Picking himself up, he held the shoulder and neck of his Zarou ally with pressure. Kolli stared up at him, still gargling, blood coughing out his muzzle.

Ziani whimpered, staring at the still-empty window and back down to Kolli. "I— You're not allowed to die— You're not going to die." Ziani moved his hands down, gripping both of Kolli's and tugging them up, placing them both on the near-intertwined entrance and exit wound of their wounded throat. "Pressure, hold it, jus— You're not going to die, I promise Kolli."

Kolli didn't seem to hear as their eyes rolled upwards, staring at the window. Ziani pulled himself up, another loud groan escaping his lip as he yelled again. "Goddamnit— Corpsman!" He then grabbed the window, his palm pushing, unfortunately, into the few exposed broken shards of glass not covered by the rug. Yet, he continued, his weight shifting as he dragged himself through the window, falling forward and onto the adjacent knocked-over shelf in front of it. Gasping, he yelled again, "…C-corpsman..!" Wandling back to the window and trying to grab and pull Kolli through. However, to his relief, another Zarou and an Ohmyidan, one in a military and the other in a civilian outfit, fit with haversacks and white and red cross armbands, help as they both pulled Kolli through.

The Zarou looked up, gesturing for his partner to help, as they quickly carried Kolli farther back into the house. Ziani tried to shout. He was wounded too, but instead, he fell forward unnoticed, gasping, pushing his hand on his abdomen while his damp tunic further stained his cut and bloodied palm. He felt like he couldn't breathe but was also exasperated as another soldier approached. The soldier immediately realized Ziani's situation and pulled him up, throwing Ziana's wounded arm over their shoulders. Ziani whined, "I-"He was too tired to speak, and his strength began to fade, barely able to stand with help as soldiers quickly looked, then turned away, from the dilemma. Yet eventually, Ziani was guided out the rear, another soldier having to help Ziani, who went limp. Soon, they were out of the house and into an adjacent and farther building, designated as the field hospital. Ziani tried to feel relieved, but his eyelids became heavy, his vision fading, and nothing followed.

Esrellia 11th, 1906.
Dirian Provisional Government.
Eastern Shrand.

The room was relatively peaceful. Thankfully, the field hospital wasn't as close to the action now. The Veraki's were pulling out to avoid encirclement, as Kolli had heard from the excited whispering of two nurses near the room he shared with a few others. His mind raced for other reasons, though. Where was the action? Where were the others? What was his current condition?

However, he had instead funneled into a mindset of watching over the few days since he awoke, seeing the nurses, surgeons, and corpsmen find their way around the room and handle his needs or the needs of others. He tried to imagine it as guard duty. Yet, he hadn't recovered enough strength to barely even move. He could only recall the cart, the dirt, dragged, and waking up. That, and the following debriefing of the surgeon telling him he miraculously survived a shot to the neck, the bullet thankfully skimmed and punched right through, and his subsequent nervous breakdown he wasn't proud of. However, before he could further dwell in his thoughts, a nurse, another Zarou with beautiful orange fur he took a liking to, sat next to him.

Kolli smiled as best he could, wanting to speak, but his wound could not permit him. Thus, he reached for the next thing, the paper in a clipboard and pencil the nurse offered to him. Smiling again, he thought of what to say. He could compliment and thank her, but before long, he thought of something: "Where's my company?" He thought momentarily, looking up at the light above him, and then wrote additionally. "Where's Private Ziani M?" He returned the paper to the nurse.

The nurse looked at the paper, tilting her head up. She looked back down and spoke. "One moment." Sitting up, she leaned out the doorframe and said some words he couldn't decipher due to the talking of another nurse and soldier beside him. However, eventually, in the nurse's place came another soldier. Pulling himself up, he prepared to gesture praise for a heroic Ziani but instead saw his lieutenant. Kolli tried to offer a weak salute, but the lieutenant raised his palm as if to tell him to rest. The lieutenant then sat down where the nurse sat.

The lieutenant stared at the paper that Kolli had given the nurse. His eyes glossed over before he looked back up at Kolli with a forced smile. "The company is still here. It seems like we earned a rest."

Kolli smiled, probably even more than compared to the nurse. However, as the lieutenant handed him back the paper, he realized a question was unanswered. Therefore, he turned the paper back around, his thumb tapping his next question.

The nurse beside the other soldier walked away, and silence began to grow across the room. Kolli became anxious, a tight feeling growing in his chest and gut. He mumbled, trying to speak. It came out as a gross crackle. However, the lieutenant confirmed his fears. "He died."

Kolli's arm dropped, the paper he held sliding on top of the sheets he initially felt cozy in. He froze, his eyes glossing over as he failed to hear the lieutenant speak anymore, and he only watched as the lieutenant placed something on the stand beside him before getting up to leave. His breathing became more irregular as he realized the place object was Ziani's locket. Kolli's gaze froze with a 100-yard stare, hyperfixed on the stained, crumpled photo's edges bent and torn around its round metal frame. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't. It hurt too much. He wanted to cry, but he didn't have the energy. So, he just stared at the locket belonging to Ziani. He at first wondered how the lieutenant got it and why it was given to him, but soon, his rationale faded. Why wasn't he the one to die instead of Ziani? He barely knew the person, but it didn't change the fact that Ziani didn't deserve to die: anger set in, his palm curling in a rage. Kolli's fist swang up and then down, slamming into his gut, again and then again. The grunts of pain quickly got the leaving lieutenant's attention, who returned to hold Kolli's arm down and calm him. Yet Kolli still struggled, his body flailing around desperately, a responding nurse having to restrain Kolli's arms for his safety. The lieutenant desperately tried to console the Zarou, but all Kolli wanted to do was scream and try to plead, but he couldn't, and now he couldn't move. Everything faded around him, and all he could hear was himself: "Why didn't I die? Why didn't I die? Why didn't I die..?"

[KyferLegs (Diria)]

Two Sides of the Same Coin

Vaylien 10th, 3:34 PM.
Solis, State of Shrand, The Dirian Federation.

Solis was always a chaotic place that never seemed to quiet down, not even at night. The quietest it was yearly was always the "Silent Minute," of September 27th, the official date when Diria won against Verak. Besides that, there was only one other day in Dirian history where Solis had been quiet, the 1924 Coup, and briefly, Vaylien 1st, where hostilities began with Verak again. When the war started, it destined millions of lives to be permanently altered. The discovery of the new conflict by the general population spread panic to the Dirian cities, the wildfire of fear, doubt, and hatred rushing over the eastern states and eventually the west. However, the ones with the most visceral reactions were the Dirian reservists, destined to be sprung into action after the initial shock. To the ladder, the Dirian Government served its numerous reservists' orders to go to their muster points. Quickly, the message spread through any facet it could, through telegraph, runners, word from relatives, and even code from the array of signal stations along the vast Dirian desert.

Nonetheless, the men, and rarely but in small numbers women, who were called upon to serve, had to drop their daily goings and put back on the tan-colored Diria battle dress uniform. For many, it was threatening to do such. To them, the conscription policy was a chore, not a life-altering choice. It had become so normalized in Dirian society it was seen in comparison to getting your ID. Yet, despite the training, the message of Dirian strength destined to win against the tide of Veraki aggression and imperialism seared into all those leaving their training went only so far for those not as optimistic as their other compatriots. Many didn't think of the Sovereign Union and how Galra and the Southern Sultans became threats alongside Verak. However, many youths still kept their idealism, holding the ideas of the Federation to heart- Still, the two vices of optimism weren't spared from their forefathers glancing at them with apprehension and pity.

In Solis, spirits ran high. Reservists like Ulus Gunay, Tezio Latif, Tan Creste, and Omid Safavi were among the many happy views in front of the bases. Gunay was the son of a water collector, and Safavi was the son of a single mother trying to make ends meet. Everyone had currently lived an everyday life full of glee, sadness, toil, victory, and defeat. The youngest, 18, and the oldest, 23, none, and many like them had never considered anything but a total success against Verak. The Bastards of Veraki couldn't win against the Dirian Federation. Galra and the Southern Sultants or "Gift-Fiam," Twin-Cunts, were also present hazards, but anyone grouped up with Verak was no better. Undoubtedly, Dirian strength and unity would prevail. Hence, when most arrived at their muster points, the men and seldom women suppressed the uneasy worry of parents and family. Some even had been veterans of the Revolution. Yet, after saying farewell to the parents and family, the four men of different ethnicities and origins laughed and talked, dreaming over their soon-to-be adventures, and disappeared into the walled-off Division HQ of their previous assigned muster point.

---

Vaylien 10th, 3:34 PM.
10 Miles from Nirah, State of Fasai, The Dirian Federation.

Ager Erkin and Saeed Farzin were considered inseparable. Erkin was a Zarou from Safareen in Egris. While Farzin was a Sohili from Harashli in Sohili. Both being the shortest of their squad, they immediately found a bond as the runts of the group when still in basic training. Despite the jokes, they weren't any different from the rest of the squad at the end of the day, and both men didn't dislike being below 5 feet, as both commonly stated: "It made them less of a target." However, what had formed their bond was the similarities in their mannerisms. Such common traits between the two men even gave them similar nicknames: Ekrin was called Lefty, and Farzin was called Righty, an inside joke kept under wraps. Both men, in their current downtime, talked about the future. After their service, which would end in about a month, they'd try to make a bakery in Safareen with the help of Erkin's parents. It was a dream for a Sohili from a poor town such as Farzin; the big city was his way out, and he had his buddy to share that future with.

Neither man could've prepared for what ensued on Vaylien 1st. Except for the 12th Infantry Regiment hogging up their space, it seemed like a typical rotation. Both were glad to get away from the Veraki border. It was a worrying post. Staring over fortifications at Verak, the land most Dirians had associated as the bringer of death and destruction, imposed a psychological dread every man couldn't describe. The anxiety was significantly worse when the men from that hellish land occasionally stared back. Nevertheless, it was their duty, as Dirians, to guard this border with their lives, and many did precisely that.

Erkin and Farzin were conversing when the first artillery barrage came raining down. Farzin heard it first, his oversized ear twitching and picking up the faint whistling of inbound shells. His hands began to slip from his legs, and his eyes unexpectedly stopped moving. Instinct kicked in, his palms grasping tightly around the center of his rifle, and next on Erkin's shoulder, he threw his friend, alongside himself, into the closest hole he could as the thunderous clash of HE blasted soon into the soil around them. The center of the encampment, with many buildings and tents visible behind them, was ripped apart, the flag pole thrown a couple dozen feet away from their position. The surrounding trees and shrubbery also broke up, wood chips and leaves scattered about as if they went through a woodchipper. A whistle of the hundreds of falling shells grew closer, unable to be heard through the explosions and sounds of destruction and death. For a fraction of a second, there was a loud thump next to the two; a bright light followed, and immediately after, a brief pinkish mist, and then they were gone, their bodies painting the cratered ground like abstract art.

[KyferLegs (Diria)]

Bedouin

The dromedary camel straddled forward, its long legs tracking through the deep sand as its rider, Ilali, a Darasae elder, gestured forward with the reins of his camel to the dune's crest. The wind caused the various items and equipment upon the camel's saddle to become sonorous, pings, chiming, and sloshing of empty or full water cans, the rubbing of cloth and sheet, or other necessities to fair in the deep Dirian Southern Great Nardras desert. Nevertheless, through the wind's faint howling and the sun's softening orange glow, Ilali and his comrades, Bai, Asiah, and Yarikh, who had another camel tied to his own, kept their steady pace. Meanwhile, the fifth, odd one out of the party, a Dirian Army Sergeant First Class, Usama Al-Tunayzi, who, obeying his Lieutenant's orders, followed the Darasae up the dune, but he struggled to keep up, his camel continuing to bleat and show frustration at his inexperienced rider.

Regardless, the group of five trekked forward until, with tepid accomplishment, the leading four stopped in a staggered formation. Subsequently, Usama led his camel from the back of the formation to Ilali's right flank. The camel grumbled and fought through the entire motion as the Dirian flag, canvased over the left side of its body, fluttered in the breeze, its gold and blue colors forcing the nomads to stifle any remarks they could muster out of respect for Itali, their Elder's, wishes. However, fortunately for them all, particularly to Usama's unease and awareness of the Darasae's contempt of the flag, the journey's destination came in sight, an ample distraction for all, as Ilali squinted down upon the spotted mess of steel, bodies, and debris in the slack of the dunes. The desert had already begun to reclaim the land, the cratered and charred ground being slowly blanketed and surrounded by small foothills of sand. Ilali's murky blue eyes danced across the scene, his pupils partway hidden by his tightly bound red and gold litham. In a swift move, his right arm reached down, grabbing a pair of binoculars off his hip and up to his brow, the aged Darasae eyes disappearing as his head scarf formed a perfect seal around the binocular's lenses, the cloth tied around his head in a way that completely enveloped his muzzle and ears. Despite this and their age, Itali remained hyperattentive, and his senses tuned to every changing detail. A piece of scrap creaking and a ripped Shaum Shela war banner flapped, and with every movement, his eyes and arms, with the help of the binoculars, darted to the scene.

Throughout Itali's piercing watch of the valley below, Usama finally got his camel to settle, the steed bleating in a temperamental display as Usama returned the gesture with a compliment of insults. Yet, with no reason to believe the camel would or could listen, he shifted his head toward Itali, giving Itali a few minutes to continue his observation. Usama, having fought side by side with the Darasae since the war started, was acquainted with their mannerisms, and to break their concentration was liable for him to be humiliated. Ultimately, through adequate reconnaissance or respect for Usama, Itali's gaze broke from the field of ruins. He rotated his torso and gestured the binoculars to the middle of the party, Asiah, to whom he then tossed the binoculars, which she caught to resume surveillance of the area effortlessly. Eventually, Itali's blue eyes shifted to give Usama a side-eye, acknowledging his request to speak.

Usama used the gesture to communicate. "...And there it is, as you know." Usama nervously chuckled, his reserved voice barely coming through the thick olive-tan keffiyeh, which he pulled down from his mouth so it no longer impeded his speech. "I'm sure the Lieutenant made it relatively clear that you all have free reign over the area, considering it's your land." Usama then pointed to a far-off crest, nothing but dunes, but they all had internalized that it was south toward the enemy. "Recon said the bulk of Abbadon's and Shaum Shella's forces are pretty far out, but I can't speak for their scouting parties. Nonetheless, nobody else will be joining you; too much of a risk considering how close camp is."

Some Darasae party members, largely Bai and Yarikh, began conversing in their local language, simply to the Dirians, such as Usama, who called the multiple dialects the Darasae spoke the Nardras Tongues. Nevertheless, the tone of their voices was evidently frustrated or mocking, and Usama couldn't help but nervously shift on the camel's back. However, Ilali stifled the paranoia, isolation, and unfamiliarity that Usama sunk into, even though both Usama and the Darasae surrounding him were equally part of the Federation. "I comprehend." Itali's voice was rugged and coarse but oddly mystical and mysterious, but also partially dismissing. Itali paid little attention to Usama's nervous glances at his young, maybe impolite, but whole capable, flock. He knew they'd all respect the peace. Consequently, he returned his attention to Asiah, repeating the same motion as earlier but without binoculars. "ܚܵܕ݇ ܡܸܢܕܝܼ (Anything)?"

Asiah, the smallest and youngest of them all, used her left hand to pull the reins of her camel and gestured for it to trod forward. The steed was the smallest but the fastest and most eager as it lurched forward excitedly. Her right hand held the binoculars tightly to avoid dropping the expensive hardware that gave her group so much aid. Likewise, not trusting herself, as she approached Itali's flank, she handed him the binoculars back quickly to avoid any chance of their destruction. Instead, she gestured with her pointing finger to the epicenter of scattered debris beyond and below them. "There is no movement, Elder, but good things are there." She gestured to the map in her lap; on it was a compass and various markings in ink of the places they had been, the most recent camp, and where they were now, and then provided a thumbs up, eager for Itali's blessing. Itali nodded politely to Asiah, whom the female Darasae excitedly, and politely grinned as she returned to her spot in the formation. That alone was an acceptance of the worth of her skills, a memory she'd kept for years.

Itali was content with the developments of both the lack of retaliation by the enemy for their unwelcomed presence and the stillness of the feeling of depravity within his soul, something he had felt copiously within the past year. He patted the back of his camel affectionally, and with a murmur, the camel seated itself on the warm sand. Gradually and carefully, he stepped and bounded off, the camel craning its neck towards him as if dissatisfied. "Usama," Itali mumbled as he carefully waded through the loosely packed sands toward the Dirian Army Seargent First Class. From Usama's perspective, Itali was much less intimidating when he had no camel to sit upon. Yet, he respectfully looked down at the Elder Darasae, who required his attention. "You may go if you wish. Your Eld- Lieutenant will know if we find anything of means." Itali's words were broken and disparaged, and his years of speaking his native tongue created difficulty in his effort to articulate Shawi, a more common language of Western Diria, compared to the widely Eastern Dirian language.

Regardless, Usama understood, having been raised and born in Shawistan, and he gestured his hand up in a courteous refusal. He had been in the army sufficiently to expect danger from every place, and despite his indignance of the Darasae, he feared for their safety. "If it is no issue for you, Elder Itali, I wish to stay. Your group can use the lookout." He secretly hated himself for it, especially since the crest with giant camels was an unmistakable sight to murderous or hungry Abbadon scouts.

Itali shrugged, indifferent but internally grateful, and whistled to Asiah, "ܦܘܼܫ (Stay)." Asiah whistled back, providing a thumbs-up as she motioned for her camel to sit; it did so with ease. She then quickly stepped off as she made her way to the back of the formation, towards Yarikh, whose attention was solely focused on the camels under his care, primarily the one tied, who was the largest of them all and under some form of unease. He spoke to it calmly and reassuringly, the camel looking at him as if it understood every word. "Yarikh." Asiah quietly bid Yarikh's attention, who quickly delivered it as a disapproving wave and pointed toward a large leather sack on the ground he had dropped just before in expectance of her appearance. Asiah chuckled; clever Yarikh, she thought, as she moved to the bag, and as Asiah knelt to its level, her knees digging into the sand, she opened it. The pack consisted of a healthy assortment of rifles, weapons, and ammo in sewn pouches, some older than others. She carefully picked out the best ammo and rifles and hoisted four guns into her arms. Carefully, she returned towards Yarikh, placing a firearm, its barrel pointed in the distance, on the ground. Next, she headed toward Bai, who patiently lingered for the party to descend into the slack, his legs swaying forward and back in boredom. Asiah quickly handed a rifle to him, and Bai calmly thanked her. Finally, she headed towards Itali, who stared past the formation to where they came from, the Dirian camp seen as far, far, away tan and clay-colored triangles. "Elder." Itali quickly broke his gaze as Asiah entered the stillness of his part of the dune's crest and took the rifle from Asiah. Subsequently, the remaining and most worn gun she collected was saddled safely against her abdomen.

Itali smiled, bowing slightly to Asiah. "ܬܲܘܕܝܼ (Thank you)." With a courteous palm wave, he gestured her back toward the formation. Then he silently pointed to Bai and Yarikh, to whom Asiah nodded, understanding what Itali wished despite exchanging no words. Asiah then trekked back, doing what she was told, as Itali turned back towards Usama, who had spent their arming and preparation in the attempt to reach his rifle tied to the camel's right side. "ܝܵܬܹܒ݂ (Sit)." With a simple word by Itali, the camel sat, and Usama sighed, embarrassed, another reason for the Darasae to mock him. However, Usama still quickly used the moment to partially step off the camel, grabbing the rope his rifle was bound to and freeing it, and then he sat firmly back onto the camel, the gun resting flat in his lap.

Itali then walked forward, letting his rifle fall to his side with his right hand, his hand grasping tightly over the bolt. Subsequently, with his left hand, he began petting the back of the camel's head and applying some pressure so it wouldn't move up, the camel remaining unbothered. Itali then looked up to Usama, momentarily contemplated, and spoke. "You. Repeat, 'Qu." The camel attempted to stand but immediately relaxed as its forehead met Itali's palm. Itali then removed his palm, the camel looking up at Itali, and then went to the ground.

Usama looked down at the camel, confused that it even understood anyone. He then looked back up and sighed in trepidation. Forcing the words out of his mouth, he tried to repeat the sound, "ܩܘܼ. (Rise)." The words Usama emitted were broken but proper enough that the camel understood. Its head jerked up in attention, and its legs kicked the sand as it slowly stood. Usama quickly caressed its neck, for once excited at his steed as the camel listened to him for once. It finally merited the recognition in his mind.

Itali then placed his palm underneath the camel's neck. The camel's neck went stiff as its eyes locked forward toward the distance idly. "To sit. 'Ia-ti-w.'" The camel then tried to pull its neck down, its legs wobbling for a second in a motion to sit, but stopped as it felt Itali's palm and quickly stood straight again. He kept his palm in place, letting Usama try.

Usama more confidently uttered the phrase, "ܝܵܬܹ-ܒ݂. ܝܵܬܹܒ݂ (Sit)," two times. He butchered the phrase on the first attempt, but the camel attempted to sit on the second try. It replicated the same behavior in Itali's demonstration, preventing itself from relaxing its long legs and consequently standing straight up, more so than before. Yet, the camel grumbled at the tease, obviously frustrated with Itali's schooling of camel riding. Itali pat its side in apology and then nodded to Usama, "Asiah will stay with you; you eye together."

Usama nodded, his respect for Itali growing despite the narrow time he knew them. "Thank you, Elder Itali." Itali graciously nodded back and returned to his camel with verve and unexpected speed, and once he arrived at the side of his camel, he carefully mounted onto its saddle. Finally, corrected and planted on the camel, he looked toward the sun approaching the horizon, the bright glow causing him to blink to get the floaters out. They had spent too much time standing around; they had to start moving, or they'd be out in the night for too long. Raising his right hand, he gestured three fingers forward, and effortlessly, Itali, Bai, and Yarikh began to trek forward, the ladder two being informed by Asiah earlier to prepare themselves to move into the slack once Elder Itali gave the command.

The group of three gradually descended from the crest of the dune they had parted from, and the watch party waved them parting as their likeness disappeared from the ambient refraction of heat. Despite being close to the end of the day, the sun's power was immense, and only when it was dark would it begin to cool off. Nonetheless, the trio knew how to protect or hydrate themselves appropriately so as not to buckle from the elements of the desert, which had been a factor for their entire lives. Thus, the sun, heat, and blinding yellow and oranges of the geography weren't on their mind as their mounts slowly departed from the sharp slope and unconsolidated sand that hampered their pace and comfort. Instead, the uncanny, twisted grey and tan wrecks that came nearer in view gave them a sense of suspense, and they didn't know if any hostile survivors were waiting for their eventual arrival. The convoy, or what remained of a convoy of Abbadon and Shaum Shella's troops withdrawing post haste, had fallen to the mercy of a Dirian Battalion and Darasae locals. Its subsequent companies made short work of the numerous invaders, and now, it was to reap the rewards. However, the initial prospecting had to be done by the land owners, or the Darasae, and that is what Itali and his flock intended to portion their first pickings of the loot.

Fortunately for them, as they reached their first glimpse of the abandoned battleground, no retribution by the enemy had fallen upon them. Instead, silence is what met them. Itali looked around. To each side were towering dunes, and another to their rear where they had just come from, the specks of their watch party silhouettes blurred against the sky, standing humbly, scrutinizing the surroundings. In front of them was a conveniently positioned wide berth that the wind had flattened over possibly years, and the dunes parted into a shallow, sloping valley. It provided suitable protection against the elements and masked any movements suitably enough. It would make sense why their enemy would use the terrain like this, yet if caught in it, an ambusher could quickly turn the advantage of stealth into a corridor of death with only one route to escape, forward, which precisely happened to the convoy. Gauging their pace, the trio finally entered the bulk of where the enemy had attempted to muster a defense. The variety of machines, metal contraptions, and bodies, their freshness, having been gone from the battle a day ago but fortunately not enough where the smell of rot and iron wasn't as overwhelming, but the remains of inorganic and organic littered every angle they could witness.

Yarikh, who was at the tail end of the trio, and as they moved blazingly but cautiously forward, couldn't but stare at the overturned wreck of what appeared to be a truck, its tan paint merging in with the sand, but its black and grey undercarriage sticking out, contrasting the bodies of fallen who had likely taken shelter next to the vehicle during their last hours alive. He couldn't help but feel some sympathy, but as he registered the feeling, he turned his gaze away and onto the task ahead. Abruptly, Itali raised his right hand, his palm lifted straight up, signaling them to stop, which the trio did with ease. A few moments passed with silence as Itali, Bai, and Yarikh pivoted their eyes around at various items and things left in the sand. After nothing reached out or announced their presence, the trio ordered their camels to sit apiece. The sand was far easier to stand and walk upon than the dune; the sediment packed against the ground, providing a soft blanket over rough stone. Regardless, the eerie presence around them provided a profound sense of uneasiness as their numbers were outnumbered by the dozens slain, their deep crimson-black blood tainting the bright sand.

They took a moment to prepare themselves, applying other necessary equipment and supplies to their person in turns, with the other waiting or finished pairs on the lookout with rifles. However, once all finished, they proceeded to the complexities of looting in the desert, a Dirian stereotype of the Darasae staple behavior; to the Darasae, it was opportunity and resourcefulness. Regardless, the extra camel that Yarikh had managed alongside his own was the pack mule of the bunch. Its sides, back, and hunch were saddled with a wide assortment of ropes, ties, and packs that provided a decent enough margin for the group to scavenge and hold the tribute that had materialized on their land, that or carry anything they couldn't on their back or their steeds. But, also close to its rump was a sled, folded and packed neatly; that was their means of initially looting and then conveying the spoils to where they'd organize whatever they found in piles. Thus, Yarikh, the de-facto quartermaster of the party, took the initiative and assistance of Bai to remove it from the camel and deploy it onto the sands. At the same time, Itali scanned any areas of interest, his keen senses and instincts already having written mental notes of the likely areas where anything would provide his family and flock quality in their lives or have the resources they needed to live.

Over the minutes, then hours, the trio of three canvased the area, checking the devastation and area of battle for anything worth value. Their footprints and paths caused visible prints and indentions within the sand as they continuously moved to and from where their steeds rested. Similarly, what could be akin to the looks of rings or abstract lines dotted from each area of interest. In difference, the twisted wrecks of war equipment and the scattered boxes of supplies that supplied those who lay motionless in the sand, their bodies slowly being encompassed into the dunes and ground, and likewise had the trio's trails started to fade as the sun grew closer, and closer to the horizon, its rays casting shadows of the towering topography which etched ebony into the slack they plundered. Nonetheless, their venture had turned up plenty of results: ammo, rifles, explosives, food, and materials, which the trio hoisted or threw onto the sled, and the goods arranged in piles close to which the camels lingered. All the while, Usama and Asiah watched from above, taking turns to watch the horizons and shade themselves in the shadows of their camels as the sun beat down on their position.

Nonetheless, the trio grew fatigued as their haul grew, especially Bai, who had grown weary despite his youth. Though still older than Asiah, the sun and labor took its toll on him. Being the strongest and fittest, he had to lift his quarter, and he pulled the most weight. The daraa draping his body, long stained by the rays of the sun, and its rich azure shifted to a modest sky blue over the years of its patronage and devotion to Bai's modest wardrobe, also had met its match, having a now significant tear across its lower side as Bai had snagged it on jagged steel when rushing to assist his Elder. However, Bai kept working, taking swigs from the leather-decorated canteen that was gifted to him long ago. Fortunately for him, the physical strain in his muscles didn't affect his spirits as he blazed a path ahead. Both Itali and Yarikh took their time not to waste their energy, something Bai had insisted on them doing; that and his stubbornness drove him to display his distinction as dependable and capable, fit for an elder, as Bai narrated to himself. Thus, with fatigue but pride, he found himself at the base of a vehicle far more prominent against the terrain than himself or anything witnessed through the late afternoon they toiled. Its components brought him curiosity. Bai had seen vehicles like cars or trucks, but this was different. It boasted interconnected metal on its sides, conjoined into a straightened oval to front and back, and between it were numerous stacked wheels. Instead of a noticeable cabin, it had a sizeable rotated box upon its chassis and a large gun stuck from its front. However, it was unmistakably immobile, a considerable section of its side chared, and partially suspended against a shallow crater that boasted pieces of the aforementioned interconnected metal. Yet, Bai couldn't stop gawking at the steel contraption, his ears standing not in concern but in curiosity. Something inside his soul compelled him to inspect it closer, but a familiar voice broke his procession of thought before he could take another step.

"That is a tank, youthful one." Itali carefully ambled closer, sweat visible on the brow and daraa from the work hours. "A harbinger of death, and able to defy much, but not all, as you can see." In his native language, Itali was far more distinctive; his articulation of words and tone fit a regal status. Nonetheless, his way of speech remained conducting and imploring. "It is best to be prudent." Itali then lifted a single finger to the front of his muzzle, pressing it against the lips that his litham hid. The trio went quiet, and Yarikh hurriedly removed the twine that tied the sled to his waist. At the same juncture, Itali began signaling with his hands, his fingers jolting, twitching, and showcasing orders in elaborate but understandable technique as both Bai and Yarikh tuned in on what their Elder ordered. Then, with a clutch of Itali's fist, the triad began pushing forward, their rifles raising toward the metal beast in front of them.

Bai took the lead as he orbited the back of the tank, observing the left track for a moment, which was blasted off. Quickly, he returned his gaze to the sights of his rifle and pointed at the back of the turret and the elevated cupola. At the same time, Yarikh and Itali approached the front of the tank, Itali gesturing to the glass-like slits that gleamed in the setting sun. Both made sure to avoid the slit's field of view as Yarikh and Itali finally hugged the right front side of the tank. A moment parted, and Yarikh set his head tightly against the side of the tank. The hot metal seethed against his fur and skin despite the litham between him and the bare surface, but he ignored the pain as his ears intently listened. There was shuffling but nothing positively audible. Yarikh lifted his head, turned to Itali, and jerked his chin and elbow upward in a concise signal that he felt something was awry. Itali nodded in accord, and Yarikh looked up at the metal beast. Then, he mounted it slowly and carefully, endeavoring to make as little sound as feasible. Once he stood atop and in the center of the frontal hull of the tank, he positioned himself against the turret's face and gun in a crouch, raising his left arm forward and clenched his fist.

Bai saw the gesture past the left turret cheek and quickly knelt against the ground. Placing his rifle down, he slid his pack off and removed the neatly rolled tarp between the fasteners of his knapsack. Unrolling and unfolding it, Bai whispered a prayer to himself. He then stood back up, left the pack on the ground, and with deliberation, his gaze examined the distance to the top of the tank. With internal calculations in mind, the element of surprise was up to him, and then Bai threw the tarp onto the cupola, obscuring its lofty viewports with a whip of his arms as the tarp rested. He then clambered onto the tank and went higher with momentum, climbing on the turret, standing on the cupola's hatch, and aiming directly between his feet in a swift instant.

Bai and Yarikh were poised against the tank's hatches, but instantaneous commotion arose within the tank in response to Bai's maneuver. The sounds within the steel case became mired. Voices, however, remained utterly indecipherable through the thick steel layer. Yet, they commuted to each other, and whoever was inside the metal beast was formulating their response, and then they halted. Ultimately, a small hatch slid open on the backplate of the turret, the barrel of a handgun prying out with no view of Bai, who stood steadfast on the cupola. The voices renewed, the tones shifting into panicked pitches, and then the cupola below Bai's feet attempted to throw itself open, the dual hatches lifting and forcing Bai to maintain his balance, the aim of his rifle thrown off. Yet, as quickly as they tried, Bai responded with a stomp of his left foot, a loud whack belching from the confines of the tank. Bai couldn't help but find humor in the situation of those inside the vehicle as the voices began to panic more. Finally, the hatch that Yarikh aimed his rifle at moved, swinging open with speed as a crew member's head emerged from the brown driver's seat, their torso twisted in an awkward angle to let them see above the tank. Yet, the childish face of the Abbadoni instantly turned up to Yarikh, who had the barrel of a long rifle between his eyes, poised on the trigger. The tanker's eyes gazed at Itali, his head unmoving, but the old Elder aimed their rifle, his lower body still hugging the right corner of the tank, hidden from any measure to disable him. The tanker froze, their eyes large and attentive, but their body stiff as his hands remained well below the hatch's rim. Then was the sound of an object thudding, the metal clattering pursued by a frustrated, furious voice within the tank. Still, the young tanker lifted their hands above their head fearfully and ascended the hatch, using his back as leverage, both Darasae having been a hair away from extinguishing the life out of them.

Gradually, the tanker found his footing, his legs kicking out as he stepped out of the tank and rolled back, flopping over the slanted hull and nearly head-first onto the sandy ground. Itali approached the tanker, and Yarikh trained his weapon on the seemingly unobstructed hatch. Characteristics of the tanker became more apparent as the Elder Darasae stepped nearer. The young, dark-skinned male, likely a late teen, in Abbadon army fatigues shuttered pathetically, his back planted against the ground, having refused to pick himself up or move his arms in fear of being shot and killed. Regardless, Itali hovered over the sight of the cowardly boy. Yet, before he could act further, another body jolted into the front driver hatch, a revolver in hand, its hammer pulled down, but before they could crest over the opening, a loud crack echoed against the dunes. The body of the new, more aged person, likely the Abbadoni tank commander, slumped forward, a hefty rifle bullet slamming into the top corner of his temporal bone and slaying him instantly, the revolver falling from his hand and rolling off the front of the tank and hitting the ground. Yarikh sighed, cycling his rifle and the empty casing flying off and against the top of the tank's hull. While Itali didn't wait a moment to pivot his body and legs between the boy on the ground and the revolver in front of the hull's track, the Abbadoni showed no volition of moving for it.

Bai observed the scene from above, the bang of the rifle still ringing in his unprotected ears. Ultimately, as a few seconds passed with no more action, he quickly stepped off the cupola and knelt against the side; pulling the nearest hatch open, he peeked inside, but there was nothing. "That was it," Bai declared, standing back up and effortlessly dismounting the tank. Leaning over and picking up his knapsack as he strode, He then came to the front of the tank, scanning the scene as Yarikh presided over the body of the man he slaughtered, his eyes sealed and murmuring prayers to himself and likely for the departed. Bai abstained from commenting as Bai approached his Elder instead, who kept the captured, uncombative Abbadoni at gunpoint. Knowing Yarikh was preoccupied, he sprang into action without requiring any verbal commands from Itali. Bai quickly patted the tanker down, pulling out a series of innocuous commodities from their pockets, the most noteworthy being a metal cigarette holder that Bai took for himself. Once done, Bai grabbed the back of his shirt collar and pulled the Abbadoni up with ease, but the young tanker resumed the rest of the act as he stood up hunched and arms raised, yet Bai maintained his grip stewardly on the tanker's collar.

Itali approached, his eyes pried into the juvenile Abbadoni's own. The tanker broke and diverted their gaze first, buckling and wincing as they convulsed, trying to break Bai's grip while ejecting panicked foreign words, his boots digging into the sand. Itali halted just an inch from their face. Itali's breath fell onto the boy despite his litham. At the same time, his gaze gaped into the individual's panicked and defying expression as if he could see their soul and decipher their volitions. Itali then scoffed, whatever he saw not amusing him, and lifted his right hand dismissively at Bai, who let go of the tanker's collar. "Lower your arms. Look to me and stand straight," Itali muttered as if disciplining a soldier gone absent without leave, again speaking in broken Shawi as he did with Usama. Despite the subtle differences, Shawi and Abbadoni were alike, something the Elder had picked upon in his travels. The boyish tanker did as ordered; however, at least reluctantly, his eyes stared up at the far taller Itali, lowered his arms with trepidation, and attempted to stand straight, but their legs still shuddered in dread. Yet, Itali kept his sneer and berating tone, losing the benevolent demeanor he had shown to his flock and Usama. "I, or my flock, won't harm you, boy, as I do not find it honorable or worthy of the energy." The tanker's face declined to settle or listen intently, the Darasae's gruff voice only compelling their panic to simmer rather than settle, unmistakably untrusting of his new captors, yet Itali didn't care and persisted in speaking. "However, the crimes your kind have committed aren't forgotten, and I know a child of your years did them volitionally. Though, in terms of your soul, that is not my choice. Instead, the sands will judge your character better than I could."

Before the boy could process the information, Bai swiftly knocked the tanker to their feet with an aggressive shove, the air being knocked from his body as his chest absorbed the impact. Bai continued to display his detestation for the Abbadoni and, to engrave his companions, knelt on top of the tanker, his more significant height and bigger weight bruising and crushing the young tanker's spine bitterly. He then precipitously removed the tanker's shoes, shocks, and coat tied around their waist and only left his shirt and pants. Subsequently, Bai threw everything else aside but held onto the socks from the tanker; the young Abbadoni all the meanwhile squirming in terror and pain beneath Bai, their body digging an outline against the sand. Swiftly, Bai tore the socks from their highest seams and tied the ends together, creating a crude blindfold and tying it around the tanker's face. The tanker continued to shriek and yell for mercy as they became predominantly blinded, their gaze completely muddled by their sock's white fabric and their words only understood by Itali, whose distant and heartless gaze refused to deliver hope to the young tanker. Bai finally pulled the young tanker back onto his feet, all their belongings and protective layers bestrewn around them as he was held firmly in place, allowing Itali to lean in and speak again. "You will now walk and only unblind once the daylight sets." The tanker exclaimed a rejection but then stiffened for an instant, registering the alternative. Still, nevertheless, their head leaned towards Itali's voice as they registered the peril they'd be in if left to wander in the desert aimlessly and without direction, their imperceptible pleading gaze, the last gamble they had to be given mercy, slanted towards the vague direction of Itali, whom's response was a concise shout. "Go!" Itali immediately broke the boy's deliberation and rationale. As they resumed and fell entirely into their terror, incapable of seeing, they stumbled back into Bai, who threw them aside, barely letting the tanker touch them. The tanker quickly flailed, staggering against the ground, picked themself back up in animalistic desperation, and blundered forward erratically, his bare feet sinking into the sand.

The trio watched the tanker run in struggle, his movement gliding across a slope. Their silhouette became increasingly distant as time passed, and the tan glob shrank into the encompassing desert. Yarikh watched intensely and sighed due to the irrevocability of his actions, having long trodden down from the tank and leaned against its far side to look over his shoulder as Bai took the time to plunder the commander's lifeless body and the tank for any commodities not vital to its operation. The Dirians would likely fix it and use it themselves, as they learned whenever the Dirian engineers would verbally argue that liberating an engine of its spark plugs or oil wasn't helpful to the war effort. Best to sacrifice to scrap for other things rather than cause unnecessary conflict; conflict costs meals, water, and lives, something Itali's flock continued to lack or had to replenish as the future came to present continuously. Regardless, before the triad could fully loll in the moment of serenity, all of them having an inner sensation that the hazard of the area was gone, their silence was dethroned by the attentive bleating of a camel with a rider on its back that saddled its way in front of their sight of the nearly gone facade of the tanker.

"Are you all okay? Why'd you let that one run?" It was Usama, his words more or less bewildered than anything else. Bai, who had contorted his waist toward the sound, half expected to get into an altercation with the Dirian over military law he didn't adhere to. However, he was caught off guard by the inquisitiveness in Usama's voice instead. Yarikh turned his head away from the commotion, his view that was firmly fixated on the disappearing spec, now obstructed by the large body of the camel. Consequently, Yarikh turned inwards and leaned his chin against his chest. Meanwhile, Itali, who had used the duration of their rest to load the sled of anything else in the immediate vicinity, had turned around with a spirited smile as if nothing had ensued, then unhurriedly approached Usama. "Stragglers, dead weight, no worries. Where is Asiah?"

Usama pivoted his head, squinting toward the individual he saw sprinting as fast as they could, as if intoxicated. They were no longer visible. He soughed. It wasn't worth discussing, and the elements of the desert guaranteed the probability of them getting lost in the night and dying, especially since they were heading toward Dirian lines. He then turned back his focus to Itali. "She is still at the crest." His mind gleamed to the remark she had told him when he questioned if they should assist and check in on the trio: 'The desert had a way of sorting the good from the bad.' He wanted to express his opinion on it, or at least question if his heroic rush into the slack was wise. But, he then realized the other half and more critical note he should say while he was here. "She mentioned the sun is starting to set, and if we don't finish soon, we'll be back way past dark."

Itali gave a curt nod, lifting his hand to rub his lowering chin in review. He then lifted his muzzle back up as quickly as it sank. "Help with the rest, and we'll leave your Lieutenant's share here." For a moment, Usama raised his finger to argue that leaving scavenged equipment in the middle of the slack was a bad idea. Still, before he could, Itali had already garnered the attention of Bai and Yarik, who resumed dragging the sled towards where piles of tribute, equipment, and camels rested. It occurred that he would now have to help and do heavy lifting. He pouted, the expression on his face turning sour, but there wasn't a point to debate, especially since if he won the argument, he'd have to endure the handling of the Lieutenant's, or the camp's, stake alone, something he wanted nothing to do with.

Thus, Usama ordered the camel forward, the steed a bit more responsive and stable as he had practiced his commanding in the Darasae dialect, which he presumed built trust with the animal. The sun beat on his abdomen, the glow from it becoming orange rather than golden, as the sky to their west was besmeared in a vibrant pink, orange, and red light as its bottommost half crested past the horizon and blocked by the dunes surrounding the slack. He couldn't help but contemplate the foe, the Abbadoni he saw fleeing, and the interaction they may have had with the Darasae. The stories Usama heard daubed the nomads of Nardras as nothing but savages, savages he had to work with at the behest of his Lieutenant, who couldn't be bothered to deal with them directly. Why would savages that kill children let an Abbondoni go? They barely didn't even like Dirians? He could only imagine how they'd feel about foreigners like the bot lecalayicio. The camel got nearer to the tidied pile of equipment and supplies, the organization impressive, bringing him back to the sprawling storehouses and marshaling yards west, where he came by train to the east to report to his station. It then occurred to him that logistics, society, and civilization were all things the Darasae understood, but they utilized them uniquely. He couldn't help but chuckle, a faint grin arising against the corner of his left lip. Tugging the reins of his steed, leading the camel to stop, he ordered it swiftly to sit. There was no time to waste. There was work to be done.